


Security Meltdown

by cssc201



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Autism, Chuck E. Cheese's, Eric Cartman Being Eric Cartman, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:14:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23701420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cssc201/pseuds/cssc201
Summary: Stan pressed his fingers to the table and scooted his chair in so he couldn’t let himself rock anymore. Everything was okay. He was normal. He was not going to melt down in the middle of Chuck E Cheese and ruin Clyde’s birthday party....Slight AU based on the idea of Autistic!Stan from Ass Burgers. Kyle helps Stan through a Chuck E Cheese's-induced sensory overload.
Relationships: Kyle Broflovski & Stan Marsh
Comments: 1
Kudos: 35





	Security Meltdown

Stan glanced at the sign hanging overhead, which stated “Happy Birthday, Clyde,” noting that the bubble letters were uneven. 

He didn’t want to be here. He liked Clyde, but he couldn’t stand Chuck E Cheese. He had wanted to skip the party and deliver his present to Clyde’s house tonight, but this idea was shot down by his mom as soon as the words had left his mouth. 

The arcade didn’t interest him, and he wandered around the consoles, reeling. It was loud and chaotic. Balls rolling along the skee-ball track, buzzers and bloops from the games, chattering and screaming children, and the whir of machinery all blurred together into a cacophony that made Stan want to curl into a ball, press his hands to his ears, and stay like that forever.

Flashing lights, whirls of movement, and the multitude of bright colors hurt his eyes. The stench of stale cheese, sweat, and spilled root beer hung in the air, suffocating him. He could taste it on his tongue when he breathed in through his mouth. 

Thinking it would relax him, he tried to play a game, a racing game, but the vibration of the seat and the flash of the graphics heightened his senses, making him even more aware of the wealth of sensory input around him. His brain was beginning to fog up, a headache blooming. He opted to keep wandering around, tapping his fingers against each other like he was trying to clap.

When the kids were called to the table, ten minutes later, Stan made sure to sit between Kyle and Butters, knowing they would be quiet. Well, they’d be quiet as long as Cartman and Kyle didn’t get into one of their infamous screaming matches. 

The dining area was a little quieter and less chaotic than the arcade, but everything happening at the table and in the arcade still rushed through Stan’s head, pushing through any filter Stan tried to set up for himself. He tried to shut his eyes and close it out, to no avail. He let his fingers tap on the table and rocked, just a few inches each way, front and back. He took a deep breath and willed himself to push through it, knowing he could cry out his overstimulation when he got home. 

He talked to Kyle and Butters, forcing himself to make eye contact. It didn’t help, and sapped more of his energy, but it helped Stan convince himself he was okay. Tweek glanced at him, letting his gaze linger for a few seconds. 

He’s judging you, Stan. 

Stan pressed his fingers to the table and scooted his chair in so he couldn’t let himself rock anymore. Everything was okay. He was normal. He was not going to melt down in the middle of Chuck E Cheese and ruin Clyde’s birthday party. 

The pizza was brought out, and a minute later Stan was prodded by Cartman, who sat on Butter’s right. A burning sensation sprouted up where Cartman’s fingers touched his arm. 

“Hey, R-tard, aren’t you going to take any pizza?” 

Hearing the R-word, or at least the South Park variation of it, stung, but Stan reached out and took a piece of cheese pizza, having to think through each step of the process. 

He kept talking to Kyle, Butters and Wendy, who had slid into the spot across the table from him when he was getting his pizza. He kept making eye contact. He was okay. He was normal. 

The noise and the sensory input kept getting more intense, and Stan was overwhelmed. He knew that, but he didn’t remember how to make it stop. He wasn’t sure if he could make it stop. His fingers tapped on the table again, faster than last time, and he didn’t know how to stop them. He felt another burning sensation in his arm, as Cartman shoved him again. 

“STAN!” 

Shit. He blinked himself out of his disassociation. Cartman was yelling at him. 

“Dude, stop being such a spaz. God, you’re worse than Tweek. I said, who would win in a fight between me and Kyle?” 

God, Cartman was loud. 

“It would be me, right? Jews can’t fight.” 

Shit. A Kyle-Cartman screaming match. Stan made eye contact with Cartman, and said “Kyle.” 

Except nothing came out. He opened, and closed his mouth, unable to make a sound. Cartman glared at him, and Stan pointed at Kyle, panic rising in his stomach.

“God, you suck. Hey, Tweek. I could totally beat up Kyle, right?” 

There was so much happening around him. He could feel his brain shutting down, and he felt like he was experiencing the world through a TV turned up to a level audible on Mars.

Kyle, engrossed in a conversation with Kenny, glanced at Stan. He was trembling, all his muscles tensed, his fingers danced on the table, and his eyes were filled with panic and focused on a spot far in the distance. 

“Stan?”

Butters brushed against him, and Stan shuddered at the touch, his trembling increasing. His eyes flickered back and forth, and he drew his arms in to hug his waist, rocking again. His breath hitched and sped up. Kyle knew what was happening to his friend, and knew how to check what stage of meltdown he was in. 

“Stan, what’s wrong?” 

Stan turned to look at Kyle, eyes widened. He opened and closed his mouth, nothing coming out. Tears welled in his eyes, threatening to spill over. Panic raced inside him at being unable to communicate. 

“That’s okay. Let’s go take a break, yeah?” 

Stan nodded.

“Butters, can you go get me the keys to Cartman’s mom’s car?” 

Butters shot from his seat and ran towards the parent table. Stan started hyperventilating, tears spilling from his eyes and down his cheeks. Everyone at the table turned to stare, and Butters ran back wielding car keys. Kyle touched Stan’s shoulder. 

“It’s okay. Let’s go.” 

Stan was too far gone to be able to process Kyle’s voice, so he had to tug Stan from the table, much as he didn’t like subjecting the boy to extra sensory input when he was having a meltdown. Kyle took his hand and led him to the door. A child ran in front of them, screaming for his friend. Stan tightened, his breath hitching again, and he withdrew further into himself.

Kyle led Stan into the back of Cartman’s mom’s minivan. He covered his face with his hands and sobbed. Kyle sat beside him, waiting, letting Stan feel what he needed to feel, knowing any attempts to comfort would hurt more than help.

He had helped Stan through a lot of meltdowns, and knew in this hypersensitive state, he needed as little input as possible to calm down. Ten minutes later, Stan’s breathing had slowed, and he scooted closer to Kyle, resting his head on the other’s shoulder. Kyle waited a couple of minutes, then put his arm around Stan, pulling him closer. 

A comfortable silence settled amongst the two boys, and they stayed that way, Stan’s head on Kyle’s shoulder, until they heard a knock on the side of the minivan. Kyle pressed the door opener button on the keys, and the door slid open to reveal Butters, holding two plates. He ducked inside the car, and offered the plates to the boys.

“I brought you guys some cake.” 

Kyle smiled at him. 

“Thanks, Butters.” 

“Is Stan okay?” 

“Yeah. He’s doing alright.” 

Butters left, closing the door behind him. The boys ate their cake. Kyle ate at a normal pace, while Stan spread his bites apart, allowing time for the taste to dissipate from his tongue between each one. Half an hour later, kids from the party started trickling out of the Chuck E Cheese, and Kyle glanced over to find Stan asleep on his shoulder. His meltdowns always exhausted him, but he would be okay after a short nap.

Someone knocked on the door of the minivan and Mrs. Cartman gestured to Stan through the window, shaking her wrist. Kyle used the button on the key to open the right sliding door, and handed Mrs. Cartman her keys. Kenny and Butters climbed in, and Wendy ran over to the car, peeking her head inside. 

“Is he okay now?” 

Kyle nodded. 

“Yeah, he just got overwhelmed. He’ll be fine when he wakes up soon.” 

A minute later, Cartman clamored into the front seat, cackling. 

“Holy shit, Kee-ny, can you believe Stan fucking cried? What a spaz!” 

Kenny glared at Cartman, and Kyle dug his fingernails into his palms to quell his rage. Cartman was using Kenny as a catalyst to try to get a rise out of him, and it wasn’t going to work this time. 

Before long, the car lumbered down Avenue De Los Mexicanos. Kenny was deposited first, then Butters, and Kyle prodded Stan awake. Stan lifted his head, rubbing sleep from his eyes. 

“Yeah, what?”

“Dude, we’re almost at your house.” 

“Stay with me tonight?”

“Duh.” 

The car stopped, and Kyle threw the two sets of plates and forks in the trash bag dangling from the back of the passenger seat, and the boys climbed from the car and traipsed into the Marsh house. Sharon greeted them, grinning. 

“Did you boys have fun?” 

Stan looked at Kyle, who shrugged. 

“It was kind of lame. Can I stay over tonight?” 

Sharon nodded, promising to call Sheila, and the two ran up to Stan’s room. When they were closed in, Stan flopped backwards onto his bed. 

“Dude, that was intense. I feel like I have a hangover.” 

Kyle giggled. 

“Maybe you do. Who knows what was in that root beer?” 

The two played a game on Stan’s old Okama Gamesphere until they were called down for dinner. 

“If your mom asks about what we did at the party, do you want me to tell her?” 

“Yeah, sure. Maybe she won’t make me go to the next one.” 

To both boys’ relief, the subject was not brought up, as Randy spent the whole dinner talking through one of his schemes again. He seemed to come up with a new one every week, and they never worked the way he thought they would. Kyle was glad he only had his mom to deal with, and not Randy. His mom was overbearing, but sometimes Randy terrified Kyle. Most of the time, though, his plans and schemes just wasted money and left a big mess to clean up. Kyle knew they upset Stan a lot. They caused him anxiety about how his life would be affected and threw off his routines. Stan thrived on his routines, and became distressed when they were disrupted. Even for something like a birthday party. 

Oh. Shit. Right. 

When the two were back in his room, Kyle sprawled onto the bed and Stan sat on the floor, his back up against the side of the bed. The two talked for hours, until day had long since given way to night. Kyle noticed that Stan was rocking and wringing his hands, and smiled. He was glad Stan was finding it more okay to stim in front of other people. Kyle had read up a lot on Stan’s disorder, and had come across a wealth of testimonies that masking was exhausting and painful. Stan stood, and Kyle glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand, the screen displaying 9:11. 

“Let’s get ready for bed, and then we’ll watch a movie or something,” said Stan. 

Kyle kept a change of pajamas in Stan’s room for just this situation, and an extra toothbrush in his bathroom. Both boys were ready in ten minutes, and Stan picked out The Simpsons Movie. 

Kyle sat, propped up against the headboard, and to Kyle’s surprise, Stan lay on his side and rested his head in Kyle’s lap. Stan usually hated to be touched outside of his meltdown recovery periods, but sometimes would let his trusted people touch him on his terms. 

Before the Simpsons even got to Alaska, Kyle was fighting to keep his eyes open and Stan had fallen asleep long ago. He turned off the TV and scooted down under the covers, letting Stan’s head rest on his chest. 

“Goodnight, Stan.”


End file.
